Mommy
by writergirl2003
Summary: "Mama would have known what to do if you were sick, or sad... or scared," Lana whispered, "She would have been right there with you, holding you and singing you to sleep. I can't do any of those things. I wasn't meant to be a mother without her."


This is something quick I wrote up that is intended to be part of a larger story. Basically, the Lana/Oliver storyline ends the same way it did in the show, except Lana moves to New York and decides to keep and raise the baby, who she names Luke. Dedicated to zap-saidthelady because we came up with the ideas together... I'm just the one that wrote them up.

* * *

It was hotter in New York than Lana had expected. She had only been to The Empire State once before years ago, when she and Wendy had taken a long weekend and made the nearly four-hour drive to explore the city. It had been windy that weekend, and some ridiculous hat that her lover had insisted on wearing kept flying off of her dark brown tresses. They had laughed so hard at the sight of that stupid green hat billowing through the wind. They had seen West Side Story on Broadway and window shopped in Times Square. They had been just out of college at the time and neither of them had spent any money because they hadn't had any money to spend, but they had been happy just to be together.

But now, things were different. The royalties were beginning to roll in from _Maniac_ and her apartment contained every necessity and luxury that she and Wendy had ever dreamed of. The fine blown-glass decor that Wendy had so admired on their trip into the city now rested carefully on the living room coffee table she had purchased, and each time she passed it she thought of the smiling brown eyes of her lover and her pale, freckled skin. Copies of paintings done by Wendy's favorite artists covered the walls, and each surface contained some memories of her deceased lover. The picture of Wendy with her class, her favorite ash tray; these were the tiny fragments of her that remained alive within Lana's apartment. Even if it was a different apartment, a different state, perhaps an entirely different world, when Lana had these things, she had Wendy.

The heat was stifling even with the windows open, but Lana pulled the blinds and curtains anyway. It had been just under a year since the nightmare had been put to rest, but she couldn't allow herself even a moment of putting her guard down. Perspiration beaded on her neck and she tucked her hair behind her ears as she made her way from kitchen to bathroom, double checking the locks on the doors and windows. She had avoided renting any apartments with first-floor access and kept primarily to herself, making it easier for her to go unseen by anyone who might be watching, waiting, looking for a victim.

Horns blared and sirens sounded through the open window, but oddly enough, it made her feel safe. The idea that there were hundreds, even thousands, of people within a few miles-radius kept her nerves at bay for the most part. She tried not to think about the people who may be lurking within that deafening crowd. It wasn't him, it never would be again, but there were others. Others who could and would do so much more than he'd had the chance to do.

A cry startled her from the beginnings of her anxiety, her eyes trailing across the living room and into the darkened hallway from which the sound arose. She blinked into the darkness, hesitating for a moment before crossing the small apartment and making her way down the hallway. The cries increased in volume as she rested her hand on the doorknob, pausing for just a moment before turning it. The air in the small bedroom was warm and musty, and she left the door open as she approached the small white crib, looking down at the squirming bundle within. His cries had turned into wailing sobs, tiny legs kicking furiously at the air above him. Even in the darkness, she could see his face was red, his big brown eyes shimmering with tears as sobs wracked his tiny body.

Her fingers reached out for him before hesitating. She wasn't good at being a mother. She had never expected to be one without support from Wendy, and to be honest, she'd expected Wendy to do much of the work. The idea of raising a child without the help of the woman who knew how to calm a crying child with one soothing touch, or quiet a baby who fussed with colic worried Lana to no end. She would never have the same skills that her lover had possessed, and this very idea was what often kept her awake at night.

"Luke," she cooed his name softly, hoping that the simple sound of her voice would calm him. The sobs continued, his small body thrashing as the wailing grew louder. "Okay." She took a breath before lowering the side of the crib and reaching in to retrieve her son. He slid into her grasp easily, and she supported his weight with her hands and arms before raising him to her chest. She shushed him softly, bounced him gently, and finally felt the cloth of his diaper to ensure that he wasn't in need of something as simple as a changing. Of course it was never that simple.

Carrying her son, she made her way down the hallway and past the living room, into the dark kitchen. As she prepared to warm a glass bottle with the infant screaming against her shoulder, she felt foolish and angry. Wendy would have known to have a bottle prepared for him. She would have worked out an intricate schedule to determine the best feeding times for their young son and would be ready if and when he awoke in the middle of the night hungry. The fact that she couldn't even predict her own child's hunger cries felt like a knife in her stomach.

As the bottle warmed, she patted his back and spoke to the air. She had tried to speak to him, but her words felt forced and unnatural. It was better to pretend that he wasn't here, that she was speaking to herself. It made the pain of being left alone with him less real.

When the bottle had reached the appropriate temperature, or at least what Lana had suspected was the appropriate temperature, she pulled it from the stove top and allowed a few drips of formula to spatter her wrist. It didn't feel too hot, and she brought the nipple to the infant's trembling lips, attempting to slip it inside of his mouth. It slid inside easily enough, but after a few seconds of unsure suckling, he rejected the bottle and began to scream once more. Lana felt the flood of anxiety again, attempting once more to force the bottle into his mouth. He turned his head away from the intrusion, tiny balled fists flailing into the air in outrage.

"You've got to be hungry," she told him defiantly, "that's all you can be. Your diaper isn't dirty, so you've got to be hungry!" His persistent wails continued, and she sat the bottle on the kitchen counter, holding him tighter in her arms. "Stop crying," she hushed him, watching as his tiny pink mouth scrunched up, his nose wrinkling as he continued to scream. "What's wrong with you? God, what is wrong with you?! Why are you doing this to me?!"

The infant took a shuddering breath, eyes widening with the growing sound of Lana's voice. She met his eyes for a moment before he began to scream again, this time louder and shriller than before. In a desperate attempt to quiet him, she brought him to her shoulder and began patting and rubbing his back. Perhaps he needed to burp.

As his head rested on her shoulder, her own head tilted toward his, her cheek resting on the dark hair that was the same color as the man's who fathered him. When her skin met his scalp, a rush of warmth caused her to pull back suddenly, looking down at the tiny head.

"My God," she whispered suddenly, "You're burning up."

Just as she made the revelation, the infant's cries became somewhat more pathetic, as if he realized that she now understood his plight while he continued to beg for desperate relief. Supporting him with her left hand, her right hand pressed to his forehead, surprised and worried at the heat that radiated from him.

She didn't know how to care for a sick child. Her experience with sick children extended to letting them rest on the couch in front of the television with a bucket in case they vomited. A sick infant, much less _her_ sick infant was entirely different.

"Oh, God, Wendy, what am I supposed to do?" She begged softly, as if the woman would be able to hear her on whatever spiritual plane she might be on at this moment. As she lowered her gaze from the ceiling, she caught glimpse of the kitchen faucet and immediately rushed to the bathroom, laying Luke on a towel on the floor while she ran the sink's cool water into the porcelain. After testing the temperature, she stripped him of his clothing, his tiny pink body shuddering with sobs before placing him carefully in the sink, one hand supporting his frail neck while the other splashed cool water onto his flushed skin. The water seemed to calm him for a moment and she took the opportunity to use one moist hand to wet his tiny cheeks and forehead, brushing the dark hair on his scalp.

"There," she whispered to him, dark hair falling into her face as she ran the cool water over her son. "Is that better? Do you feel better?"

He seemed to enjoy the feel of the cool water upon his warm skin, and as she lifted him from the bath, his tiny legs kicked the air desperately as if he were attempting to swim. She couldn't help but laugh softly in spite of herself, wrapping him in a thin towel and clutching him to her chest. The cool water seemed to have helped somewhat, and she felt less heat radiating from him than before. He, however, still whimpered against her, making soft but pathetic noises.

"I don't know what else to do," she told him honestly, pulling him back to look into his chocolate brown eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do. I'm not the mother you deserved to have." As she spoke to him softly, his whimpers quieted and he blinked at her, a shuddering breath overtaking him as he attempted to soothe himself. "Wendy... your other mother, she would have been amazing with you... she would have known all the right things to say and do. Wendy would have loved you."

As he watched her speak, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly in a tiny smile, his eyes widening at the sound of his mother's voice.

"What?" She asked softly, "Do you like that? Do you like hearing about Wendy?"

His brown eyes locked on hers, searching her face as she spoke. Lana glanced around her briefly before heading toward his nursery. He watched her face as she diapered and dressed him in cool clothing, as if he were merely waiting for her to continue speaking. She made her way to the rocking hair, holding his head in her hands and laying him on her legs so they could watch each other as she spoke.

"Do you want to hear more about Wendy? About... Mama?"

Dark brown eyes locked on hers, blinking slowly.

"You would have loved her so much, Luke. And she would have loved you... no matter who you came from. If she'd been able to meet you, none of it would have mattered. The second she knew about you, you would have been _her_ baby... no one else's. Nothing about _him_ would have kept her from loving you." She realized she had been holding her breath and let out a soft sigh. "Not like it does with me."

His fingers waved in the air suddenly, and she used one hand to grasp his tiny hand. His hand wrapped around her index finger. She studied the connection between them before continuing.

"Mama would have known what to do if you were sick, or sad... or scared. She would have been right there with you, holding you and singing you to sleep. I can't do any of those things. I wasn't meant to be a mother without her."

She felt tears welling in her eyes as she spoke, and before she had a chance to wipe them away, a solitary drop fell onto his tiny hand. He blinked, as if he felt the change within her, which she knew was impossible. He was an infant, no more than three months old. He couldn't possibly be so perceptive.

"And I'm sorry... for the way your life began. I know it wasn't my fault, but it wasn't your fault, either. You couldn't have known the life you were being brought into." Her words sparked a sadness deep inside her, one that she knew she had been avoiding confronting for the better part of a year now. "I can't promise you that I'll be as good of a mother as Wendy... as your mama would have been, but I'll try. And..." she paused, shaking her head. It was stupid to expect anything of an infant, but his eyes were so dark and captivating, blinking as she watched him. There was no sign of the fussy child that had been just moments ago. "And can you promise me something, Luke?"

Still watching, still waiting.

"Can you try not to be like your father when you grow up? If I do the best I can with you, you've got to do the best you can with me. I know he's in your blood, but... you're not him. You're nothing like him." She bit on her lower lip. "He never had a mother... but you did. You had two. You still do."

His grasp tightened around hers, almost as if he were making an unspoken promise.

"Good boy." She rocked him quietly for a moment, feeling his soft skin and sighing with utter relief as she realized that the flush was finally beginning to fade. Feeling a rush of maternal instinct, she brought him to her chest, placing a light kiss on his dark brow before using her finger to gently trace the slope of his nose.

"Now go to sleep," she hushed him softly, her eyes watching him as she rocked him in her arms, "Mommy's got you."


End file.
